Page 30 of The Beast's Bride
A tear trickled down Rhona’s face. Reaching up, she knuckled it away. She knew Adaira didn’t understand why she’d had to flee. “It ripped a hole in my heart,” she answered softly, “but aye, it would have been worth it.”
Silence stretched between them. The sisters stayed where they were, Adaira clinging to Rhona like a barnacle. Rhona let her, for her sister’s embrace brought her comfort.
“What will ye do now?” Adaira asked finally.
“I don’t know … nothing it seems.”
“Ye could try to sneak away again … take me with ye this time. There’s that passageway in the dungeon we discovered years ago. We could leave that way.”
Rhona shook her head. She’d already considered the hidden passage as a means of escape, and dismissed it in favor of taking a horse south to Kyleakin. Rhona, Caitrin, and Adaira had stumbled upon the passageway one summer while exploring the dungeon. Folk at Dunvegan had long talked about the existence of a hidden passageway somewhere in the keep. Once they discovered it, the sisters made a pact to keep its location secret.
Tears flowed, hot and silent, down Rhona’s cheeks. “Da will post guards outside my door at night. Even if we got past them, they’d run us down like deer. We wouldn’t get far.”
“But I want to help.”
Rhona took Adaira’s hand and squeezed. She didn’t deserve such a sweet-natured sister. She’d acted selfishly, and yet Adaira still loved her, still wanted to help her. “Ye are helping,” Rhona replied softly. “More than ye realize.”
Chapter Fourteen
The Day of the Games
THE DAY OF the games dawned warm and sunny. The weather didn’t care if Rhona was miserable, that she’d dreaded each sunset that brought her closer to her fate. The time had sped by—and Rhona awoke to honeyed sunlight filtering through the shutters into her chamber.
A short while later Liosa brought a platter of food up to her. The hand-maid found Rhona swathed in a thick robe, perched on the sill of the open window, knees pulled up under her chin.
“Morning.” Liosa favored her with a smile and carried the tray over to the table that sat in the center of the chamber. “Lady Adaira didn’t think ye would be hungry, but Fiona insisted.”
Rhona’s gaze glanced off the fresh bannock, butter, and honey, and the mug of milk that accompanied it. Her belly lurched. “Adaira’s right,” she replied. “I can’t eat.”
Rhona remained seated on the window sill while Liosa padded about the room, readying the clothes Rhona would wear for today. They’d already picked out her outfit: an emerald-green kirtle over a dove-grey léine. The kirtle, edged with gold thread, had a low rounded neck and long bell-like sleeves. It was the costliest item of clothing that Rhona owned, and had she not felt so miserable, she’d have enjoyed wearing it.
As it was, she felt like hurling it from the window.
Rhona dressed in silence, while Liosa said little—unusual, for the hand-maid was usually full of observations in the morning. Neither of them spoke as Rhona fastened the laces of her kirtle down the front of her bodice.
Outside, the excited chatter of women in the bailey below filtered up. The folk of Dunvegan had been looking forward to this day for weeks; everyone loved games, for it broke up the routine of everyday life and gave servants a break from their chores.
“I’ve never seen the keep so busy,” Liosa said finally. “Men from as far away as Caithness and Lothian have come to compete.”
Rhona drew in a deep breath at this news. “How long will the games last?” she asked. In her misery she hadn’t considered the details of what her father was planning.
“Two days. It’ll start with a day and a half of strength tests, and then the finalists will wrestle each other for yer hand.”
Rhona inhaled once more, trying to ignore the anxiety that twisted inside her belly like a trapped eel. She smoothed her sweaty palms upon the silky material of her kirtle and squared her shoulders. She’d be damned if she’d let anyone see her despair.
“Come on then,” she said, turning to Liosa and meeting her eye. “Let’s get this over with.”
A summer’s breeze laced with the scent of crushed grass feathered against Rhona’s cheeks. She sat upon the stands before the competition field and waited for the first of the strength games: the tossing of the caber.
Erected out of slabs of pine, the stands rose three tiers high. Much preparation had gone into this day. The MacLeod plaid—a crosshatch of yellow, black, and grey, threaded with red—fluttered from the ring that encircled the competition field.
Excited spectators chattered around Rhona, while crowds of village-folk gathered around the perimeter of the field. She sat in-between her father and Adaira, hands folded upon her lap. Since leaving the tower room, no one besides Adaira had spoken to her. Caitrin hadn’t come to the games, as her infant son had a fever, although Baltair was here. He sat farther along the bench, laughing over something with the man seated next to him.
Baltair had not greeted Rhona, or even acknowledged her—not something that bothered Rhona. But it stung that her father ignored her. Even Una stared right through her.
It was all part of her punishment. Rhona’s fingernails bit into her palms. How she wished she was far from here.
Men, clad only in plaid braies, their naked chests gleaming in the morning sun, walked out onto the field. Rhona’s throat closed at the sight of them.
